Feb 23, 2004 23:54
Jesus. I feel like saying something about wanting to slit my wrist and take a warm bath but, at this point, suicide just seems frustrating and meaningless. And completely cliche.
At one time the thought of people crowded around my open casket, admiring my cute but dead body and mourning my untimely demise brought me some comfort. They'd spend days, if not weeks, replaying scenes of the little things that didn't seem important at the time (like when I smoked that fish out with the bong) but now fill their hearts with bittersweet memories over and over in their heads. They'd all think about what I could have become and be annoyed that I didn't have a chance to make my bloody cinematic directorial debut. Damn it, he could have reinvented an entire genre, they would think to themselves. And what a sweet, sexy, witty boy, too. It's a shame I didn't get to sleep with him.
I would fantasize an obscene, yet bitterly hilarious suicide - me, dressed in a children's panda costume with my cock hanging out and several bottles of cheap alcohol surrounding my cold, stiff adorable body - and drift to sleep content.